Embrace
by nothingwillsuffice
Summary: Lotor knows the Ancients' wisdom is incomprehensible unless one is blessed with it, something truly divine to behold. Even so, he's not surprised by what he learns from the Ancients; he's surprised that he's even bequeathed the knowledge. - Lotor succeeds in Oriande AU. For Shiranai Atsune.


He is Galra.

Lotor bears two identities, and he bears them both with pride, but never before has he felt so distant from a whole half of himself.

This time, it's the Altean half.

He is surrounded by his lifeblood's energies, shrouded in the essence of Altea. He is as close as physically possible to that half of himself which he has been denied. Oriande feels like completion. It washes over his soul.

But all of it-- the energy, the architecture, the history, the Princess, the souls he could feel lingering, the Guardians, the tests-- it only punctuates how much he doesn't belong.

Born Galra, raised Galra, seen Galra, treated Galra.

He is Galra.

He's a Galra in the holiest place Alteans had. A black spot on white. A blight most hideous.

An outsider.

He doesn't feel connected, doesn't feel in place. Not like Allura. He watches her, his long lost princess, and sees the ease with which she walks Oriande's sacred halls. He sees the way her lips curve in knowing delight, the way her steps are sure, the way she greets her ancestors as one would a wise forefather. She knows this place, in her heart she always had.

Lotor knows it too. He does.

But not like her.

He feels unease in the presence of his ancestors. He feels small, unworthy. Like a naive child in the Kings' hall. An everpresent shiver coils tight around his spine and only gets worse the deeper they go. He holds his helmet to his chest and flinches when the princess stands tall. He watches with wide eyes as Allura meets a Guardian halfway with her own eyes full of righteousness, the culmination of their heritage acting as her shield. The princess knows her worth.

Lotor has never been sure. Not in regards to Altea, at least. He is confident in his Galra, he knows that he is just as Galra as any other. But Altea. He has never known Altea, had never seen another Altean before a thousand decaphoebs ago, and for him that isn't a long while. His research is truly useless at this point. Here, in Oriande, he knows nothing.

This Lotor is amazed that he has made it as far as he has. He owes it all to the Princess, he knows, and is not at all in doubt about it. He's nervous by her side because he knows that without her, he is nothing.

Without her, he does not belong.

Without her, he is just a Galra in Oriande.

And it rings true, that fact; when he and the Princess are finally separated. He sees the White Lion waiting for him, watching him. He sees the unimpressed gaze of his forefathers glaring down at him. They narrow their eyes, asking.

_Who are you?_

Lotor swallows. He tells himself what he has been telling himself for ten thousand years.

_Proud. Galra. Altean. _

The lion bares its teeth to him and Lotor follows suit, feeling the Galra in himself all the more acutely. He readies himself for confrontation, claws extending anxiously.

The lion steps forward and growls.

_Who are you really?_

Lotor knows the answer. It shines in starlight violet upon his cheeks.

_I am worthy._

Worthy of life, worthy of love, worthy of friends, worthy of family, worthy of Alteans, of the Galra, worthy of his station, worthy of his peace, worthy of happiness, worthy-- worthy of being worthy!

He is chosen-- by fury, he is _chosen._ Hand-picked by the great Ancestors themselves.

Their blood is his blood, and his blood is theirs. They are united here, made into one; Lotor is sure he can feel Allura somewhere if he really tries. Something greater, he is a part of.

The White Lion leaps at him unexpectedly. Lotor centers his weight, reacts purely on instinct and training. He catches the lion by its jaws as it descends on him and pushes against it. They are locked, wrestling for dominance, fighting to overcome the other. Lotor's heart is beating too fast and his mind is too numb and his soul is too hurt for him to realize-- to feel-- that his actions are wrong.

This is wrong.

In a sudden surge of power, the lion fights Lotor onto his back. It brings its muzzle closer and closer to Lotor's face, threatening with large canines and unimpressed, glaring eyes to end his Galra life. To vanquish the outsider.

To kill the blight.

_Death_, Lotor thinks, and he sees it in front of him when he looks at the lion's eyes, _this will be my death_.

His arms tremble slightly as the White Lion presses forward. Lotor is close to giving, to being bested. His eyes close as he takes a leveling breath. He's going to die. . .

Die?

No!

_Victory!_

There is so much left to learn, to do! He has to return to his princess and his generals and his empire! He must complete his research and bring about universal peace! _His_ peace, it is of the utmost importance.

Lotor growls, bares his teeth at the White Lion, and throws the beast off of him. He is agile and quick and comes to his feet in a blink. His sword comes to be in his hand as he and the lion stare each other down, one visage determined and the other stoicly glowering. Lotor's muscles are taut with expectation.

_I will not fall again_, he promises.

The lion lowers its mighty head to level a. . _sad_ look at Lotor. The emotion catches the emperor off guard, and inside, he falters.

_How naive you are and yet burdened with such cruel wisdom,_ says the lion to him. _Do__ you know your own age?_

Lotor stares with widened eyes at the White Lion. He feels the beast's sentiments, shivers as they roll over his heart and touch his mind. He forces himself to take a breath and _think_. His body is hot and overtaken with Galra animosity, ready to fight and fight and _never_ die, not until he is victorious. Galra is all he's ever known so he's let it-- he's let the outsider take ahold of him. But he's also Altean. Where is his Altean?

Shrunken and scared behind the Galra, apalled by his short-sightedness. In utter submission to the White Lion.

Lotor blinks, choking on his own breath as his own folly becomes apparent to him. Every of his muscles begins to relax, making his jaw go slack. His eyes flicker aimlessly with confusion.

_What? _

_How long have you known?_ The lion reiterates.

_Thousands of decaphoebs_, Lotor thinks, _my entire life._

_No_, the White Lion tells him, coming towards him with airy steps. The lion's expression goes from sad to gentle-- understanding. As if it, too, is learning. Lotor watches with a dying heart as it comes.

_You're just a child. Know it, Lotor._

Lotor looks down at himself. A child?

Killer of thousands, god to hundreds, bearer of unrivaled knowledge, hunter of destroyed history, owner of ten thousand decaphoebs worth of living, decieving, killing, surviving, fighting, fighting, fighting. There isn't a shred of innocence left in him. There can't be.

_Know it, boy_, the White Lion urges him. Lotor feels its words as a huff on his cheek, almost as if the lion were a disgruntled parent trying to teach its child to understand. The sensation is ludicrous to Lotor, who has only ever known the scorn of a parent, criticism to tear him down and never build him up.

He dares to raise his head, and immediately his eyes meet the endless silver of the White Lion's gaze. His body begins to feel weak.

_Boy?_ He. . . is starting to wrap his mind around it. The hot-blooded Galra-- the blight, the outsider-- is shying away from power of the White Lion instead of bull-headedly confronting it. He sees the kind of power the lion possesses. It is a stength of purity that cannot be _beaten_ or _subdued_, only. . .

accepted.

And the Altean is bowing his head in reverence. A child in the presence of a king. He understands that he has much to learn, that he cannot fight his way through. His learning will come with his deference and acceptance. The lion's will is the key to understanding any further.

Lotor lets go of his sword.

_I am. . . naïve. . ._

He falls to his knees.

All this time. . . in all the life he's lived, Lotor has never truly been an Altean. Not like Allura. Not even like the colonists. He has no exposure, no experience, no _Altean_ wisdom. In truth, as a Galra, he is as wise as an old king, but as an Altean, his understanding is equated to that of a child's.

As it is. . . he's just been born.

From the White Lion Lotor can feel a soft wave of sympathy. It caresses his heart with a blind love that makes him want to cry. A tear or two might actually escape his seeing eyes. There's a nudge against his forhead, light and gentle, as the lion prompts him once more.

_Now tell me who you are._

Lotor has learned it.

_I am Lotor, son of Zarkon and Honerva, Emperor of the Galra Empire, lost child of Altea, half a soul. I am as old as I am young. Right now, I am an outsider, and naive. But I wish to know the wisdom of the life-givers and to become connected to my other lifeblood. I want to bring peace to this universe-- more than anything. I want to see it._

_See_?

_My peace. I would give anything._

_Anything_.

_Yes._

The lion brings its eyes down to Lotor's again, forcing Lotor to see endless silver. _The cost of your peace is your life_, it says, _Are you still willing? _

Lotor shuts his eyes.

_It is an equivalent exchange._

And he's been wanting to rest for a while now. But he simply couldn't until his dream had been fulfilled; until universal peace existed, until all the sacrifice, all the hard decisions, all the sleepless nights where he would ponder if his wrongdoings could ever be forgiven, and all the evil he had done for good amounted to _something_. Before, he could not rest until he knew that those lives he had taken and that those lies he had told amounted to something great.

And all of it, every single choice, has finally led him here.

This is his chance. His time.

There is an open moment of anticipation. Lotor has never feared death for the reasons others have-- he's only ever feared dying before his peace could come to be-- so there is no doubt or worry in his mind. He waits patiently for the pain to come, or whatever sensation shall dominate him when the pure entity consumes him. Lotor accepts his death here and now.

For it will be his victory.

_You were always worthy, Lotor. _The White Lion tells him as it comes forth to take his heart in its jaws. _But now you are_ ready.

Ready.

He is finally ready.

A mind-numbing warmth swarms his body as the White Lion takes his life. Lotor can feel nothing but the pulse of his soul in the high of his cheeks where his Altean marks shine like stars. He's been relieved of his foreign body.

Everything is white, then silver, and finally black.

A splinter of stars glows through the everlasting night.

For a long while, Lotor remains in a sort of peaceful limbo.

He gazes at the stars with a calm and a patience he's never known. It's nice, something good.

His heart no longer burns with anxiety.

A million weights are lifted from his shoulders.

Lotor is utterly alone. On the brink of sleep though well-rested.

He sees a galaxy overhead.

And then he is embraced.

-: : OГI/\NDE : :-

"Allura,"

The princess turns around, heart leaping in her chest. She's been worried that something unfortunate had happened after they had been separated. The thought of Lotor meeting his untimely demise because of her, or the Paladins suffering because she had taken too long plagued her as she waited.

Her smile is bright as he comes to stand beside her, relief flooding her system.

"Lotor," she says excitedly, taking in his pensive expression and relaxed shoulders curiously, "you made it."

She finds she's not the only one short on words; Lotor only nods to her, looking almost childishly distracted. His gaze is elsewhere-- everywhere. His lips are parted as if he wants to say something but all he can do is be in awe. His eyes appear as if they are seeing all that there is to see. Allura adores it.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" she asks him. She looks around too, unable to help it now that she's thinking about it. "The knowledge of our Ancestors."

"It's glorious," Lotor says finally. The princess hears the reverence in his tone, the utter astonishment at something greater than himself. It had always been there when he spoke of Alteans and their alchemy, but here and now it is more guttural. Tangible. Something in Allura's stomach flutters when she hears it; it's amazing to have someone that understands.

"Allura, everything is so. . ." Lotor continues, and sounds like he's almost out of breath. Like he's struggling to remember how to breathe because his head and his body are full and there's too much to remember, too much to feel, too much to say. He stops looking around, clutches Allura's shoulder and forces his gaze to settle on hers, his cobalt eyes glimmering in a way she has never seen before. "so _beautiful,"_

And Allura thinks, her eyes trained on the gleam of his eyes and the shine of his smile, that yes, he is.

She places her hand on top of the one holding her shoulder and smiles back. She nods, at a loss for words completely, beginning to understand with her Ancestors' wisdom that this was even more than a quest of self-discovery for him.

It was a birth.

She is so very lucky to see it.

They stare at one another for an indefinite while, simply seeing the beauty in the other. Life is painted so differently, it seems. Even for Allura, who has always known. She can hardly imagine how Lotor feels.

"I feel as if all is clear. That I am complete. At last," the emperor says, taking Allura's hand into both of his, his body somehow so much closer than before, "I am who I was meant to be. And it is because of _you_, princess. You have my eternal gratitude."

Allura blushes and averts her gaze to the ground. She watches the Lypix Lillies sway in Oriande's warm breeze. "Thank you, but it was our combined efforts that brought us here. I would have continued to believe that Oriande was a fairy tale if not for you. And you can forget about me finding my way here."

Lotor hums with warmth, the lilt of his honey voice this side of distracted, "Perhaps,"

Lotor's azure gaze wanders again, his body shifting so that he once again stands at her side. Their shoulders brush against one another as he looks out across the land breathes deep in his chest. Allura's heart flutters at the sight of his profile against Oriande's eternal sunset. She squeezes his hand, which is still in hers, and wishes this beautiful peace would last until Oriande's forever. But she knows they must go, and hurry back to the Castle before the defenders of the universe perish. She must swiftly face the war that wages on.

Almost as soon as she has the thought, Lotor sighs. His expression is verging on dour and his face is downcast, a curtain of shadow falling over his features. Allura asks him about what plagues him.

"This journey has truly revealed evermore to me. Alas, among this is something terrible I must confess to you, Princess."

He needed to tell her now, before it was too late. He couldn't keep it from her any longer. Not like this.

"I want to hear it, but I'm afraid it will have to wait," Allura says, "The Paladins are waiting for us and, by now, I imagine they are in desperate need of air."

She is saddened to leave, and it shows. Lotor smiles a conciliatory smile, letting her know that he shares her sentiments. Again, that amazing feeling of having someone who really understands touches Allura's heart and she begins to think that whatever it is Lotor must tell her, it cannot possibly be so terrible.

Yes. . . she can see it. They'll settle the war and then return to Oriande together. Everything will finally be alright.


End file.
